


Ghostown

by clandestineClairvoyant



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:38:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestineClairvoyant/pseuds/clandestineClairvoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone prompted this, and I liked it enough to post it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghostown

####

 

_”The bar tender is glad to see her go- He doesn’t water the wine for fear she’ll notice, and no one in Lowtown dares to cross the Siren Song since the bad days.”_

 

Isabella paused uncertainly at the quiet, hoarse voice she heard almost at her elbow, the door to the tavern closing crookedly behind her. Loud, raucous voices and the clatter of wooden plates and cheap cutlery filled the air briefly, until it cut out with the lamp light as the door finished swinging shut.

With the damp season of rain now upon them here in the Free Marches, no wood was safe from the swelling effects of the rain. As a result, the door was slightly slower to close, and slightly harder to shut. Probably causing whoever was talking to misjudge just how soon he could quit talking before someone heard him.  
Evident by the fearful way the voice cut off as soon as she stopped walking, the sound of the door shutting just half a beat before the rather abstract comment about rain.

It _was_ quiet however. It would have been impossible to hear, if not for the fact that she was plenty used to picking up noises in the dark. Especially ones located behind her. Such as they were, she thought grimly, swaying only _slightly_ on her feet.

 

As the voice mentioned, it was pissing down buckets, the sky sodden and dark with gray clouds. And although according to her state of sobriety it was almost high noon, there wasn’t a glimmer of sunshine to be seen.

The only light came from the guttering oil lamp hanging from a broken chain on the eaves of the tavern, the sign too peeled and splintered to read anymore. It threw the firewood pile near the door into uncertain shadows, and it’s from there that Isabella’s certain she heard the voice.

 

It had snapped off as soon as the door shut behind her, almost easy to mistake as the chatter of voices and warm clinking of mugs and cutlery bouncing off of the eaves and playing tricks on her ears. But Isabella’s ears don’t lie.

Sure enough as she stood still and wove gently and drunkenly on the spot, mouth pursed into a frown, she heard a muffled, uncertain _cough._

 

“Ah- _ha._ Thought you could sneak up on me, did you?”

 

She whirls, already palming a dagger, eyes narrowed into the gloom. Her boots are already wet from an evening of drinking, and she unconcernedly kicks the damp, and probably fungus riddled woodpile enough to cause a small avalanche of oak and wood chips.

Things scuttle out, but she ignores them in favor of the thin, pale lad who’d been lurking on the porch, his wide hat dripping water off of it more effectively than the gutters over this shithole of a tavern, his eyes wide and startled underneath it.

He scuttles back, mouth already open and mumbling worriedly, but she ignores it in favor of following him, blade pointed at him in place of a finger, like a schoolmarm scolding a naughty student.

“Thought you’d wait to fleece some pockets, hm? Not that I can blame an enterprising young lad such as yourself-“ He manages to scramble to his feet, the two of them now out in the rain, which is coming down so thick that even a few feet from the door of the tavern she can hardly make out the frosted window and shutters. The lamp is still swinging gloomily however, and that combined with the uniformly weak grey of the clouds gives her enough light to make out threadbare clothes, practically hanging off of thin collarbones and a long, nervously bobbing throat.

He’s skin and bones; But Isabella can never resist a bared belly. Like a cat presented with a sleeping dog.

“-But _no one_ fleeces Isabella and her pirate crew.” She’s had this happen often enough- People hear her and her lads are in town, and think to settle a score, or make a quick copper or two. Apparently, she hadn’t made enough of an example of the last sorry sod to pull this kind of stunt, if there were still folks out there who thought of _her,_ Isabella, queen of the Seas, as _easy pickings._

 

The Queen of the Seas things was going to pick up traction, Maker damn it, if only Varric kept his end of the bargain.

 

“I don’t fleece!” The lad manages to stutter out, and avoids Isabella’s hooking foot enough to make it to standing, his footing surprisingly agile and sure for someone who seemed so clumsy. She arches an eyebrow, skipping backwards in case he takes advantage of his new solid ground.

But he simply wobbles uncertainly, muddy and dripping. “I- There are no sheep?” He adds, almost worriedly, and Isabella’s astounded to see him _wring his hands._

_’Is the lad simple?’_

“-the water comes from the Waking Sea, salt and storm and bones all smoothed to a polish, heat rising, pouring down to flood and flow and flee, back to the sea, back to the deep cool and someday it will spray across your face on the deck of a ship-“

 

“Shut it sweet pea.” Isabella says lowly, threatening, and the lad crouches, suddenly. His hands slowly start to move towards his belt, but she frowns warningly, and he hesitates, wetting his lips nervously. “Hm. Got something there for me? Let’s see it.”

He doesn’t move, and she snaps the fingers of her free hand, jerking her head. He flinches slightly, and the water spatters from his hat in a small arc. What a ridiculous hat. She might take it when she’s done here. One can never have enough ridiculous hats. She’s _definitely_ interested, however, in the nice looking daggers she can see in threadbare sheathes on the kids belt. A fine glimmer of copper wrapping and wicked looking dragon bone. What’s a simple lad like that doing with a pair of fine ladies such as these, she wonders?

 

“I haven’t got all night love. Cough it up, and maybe I won’t spit you where you stand.” Her head is still pleasantly warm from the absolute _swill_ they had served, and she’s already thinking longingly of the swinging berth and warm, cozy solitude of her ship, _Sirens Song_.

 

“-Hawke is waiting, long limbs and black hair, an ink smudge on the pillows and the blush of her scar curving up as she smiles, just for you.”

 

Isabella feels herself go cold, alcohol burned away in a sudden surge of adrenaline. Her smile’s still in place, but frozen. Rigid. ”You think she won’t love you, that she’ll see you for what you are, dirty, tainted, no amount of scrubbing will ever wash it away, but she sees you and just comes back, holds you close like your something like treasure. You can’t wait to get home to your ship and _see her again_ , even with that damned dog-“

“Shut up.”

“-Just like mother, the truth is like a lamp in her hands, shining on things you don’t want to know, you don’t want to hear, not if it means this- Not if it means leaving. Ropes binding tight, chains choking around your throat the sea is a dried up plain of salt in your eyes and you can’t reach it and she simply sells you for a handful of silver and promises of land that will never replace the daughter she’s _sold_ -“

“I said shut it.” Something in her voice must finally cut to the part of this simple boys brain that keeps him alive, because although his mouth stays open, no sound comes out, his lips working noiselessly before shutting tight. It seems like the more danger he’s in, the less control he has over what comes out of his mouth, if the way his throat works is anything to go by. He looks like he’s _choking._

There’s silence, except for the rain.

It patters off of the oil slicked hat, and into the now almost ankle deep mud of the shitty roads they have in this backwater farm of a town in the Free Marches.

 

Isabella has met many Rivaini seers in her life- Most notably her mother, may her ice cold rock of a heart sink into the pits of hell and _melt_.

But never one that could read thoughts like this.

“You reading my thoughts sweet pea?” She narrows her eyes, now smiling slightly less ferally, and more curiously. Gentle, don’t want to spook him. He looks as if a loud noise will scatter him to the wind.

This doesn’t seem to help matters, and spooky starts to glance around, as if looking for an escape route, feet shuffling through the muck.

 

She needs to change tactics.

“You hungry?”

Wide, pale eyes like river stones turn to her, and the shuffling and wringing stops.

“… I have knives in my belly.” He says, uncertainly, and slowly. The hat dips, and Isabella’s not sure if it’s in agreement, or simply a combination of the sapping cold and hunger making it harder for him to hold his head up.

Looking closely she can tell he was a slender lad to begin with, and Kirkwall had only managed to strip most of the flesh from his bones, as Kirkwall is known to do. He’s lucky he hasn’t ended up in a slavers hold.

Although, seeing the state of his knives and the few moments of grace she’s seen from his footing (not to mention the fact that he’s lasted this long in Kirkwall on his apparent own), she suspects he’s simply reaching the end of his ropes rather than a simple minded boy lost in town, and taking shelter in the nearest place that’s only slightly damp. Rather than actively running water.

Seeing the way his knuckles whiten and his knees tremble, she’s starting to think she’s right. “It’s not…. It’s like _before._ But it’s not dark, and nobody forgot.”

This seems to make the lad miserable, and Isabella nods agreeably, as if the words makes perfect sense.

“Well. Listen lamb, I’m willing to forgive this _awful_ mistake of yours, thinking you could out-rogue the _queen_ of rogues-“

The lad makes a small noise of protest, and Isabella continues on, unconcerned, and coming close enough to clap a hand on his shoulder. It squelches, and he practically falls over. Sure enough, under the rough spun tunic and leather armor, he’s all bone, and long, muscly sinew. A familiar build Isabella know intimately, from long weeks of starvation and too long on your feet.

“- If you let me get you some dinner. On me. No strings attached.”

“You don’t like strings- They cut.” The lad says out loud, in that odd dreamy voice, like he’s speaking from another room.

Isabella very pointedly pushes and steers him towards where she remembers the docks being. “Yes yes, very nice- Say, what’s your name again?”

“I’m Cole.”

“Alright Cold-“

“No, I’m _Cole-_ ”

“Right, right, thank you lamb. Cole. Save it for after we get some food in you, hm?”

 

She can’t wait to show Hawke what she found.


End file.
